The funereal ding
by my oh mighty
Summary: I havent really left the house since it happened. You wouldn't understand. Two-Shot.
1. Chapter 1

**Part one of two. I do not own anything. **

* * *

There has always been a standing mirror in the corner of my room, my mothers mother. Curved to an oval shape. _My _room.

I can't see myself in it because the lights are off; purposely. I can see the reflection of the trees outside though, the curtains up so it's the only light source. Again; purposely.

The same windows stream of light shines to the small drops of dried blood on the ground from maybe, 6 nights ago? Time doesn't matter though does it? Funny how that is, of all places the blood could have dropped to it's where the light shows it.

My hands are shaking from the want to touch my face, but I know the reaction I will have. It's always the same, the same.

Soda's in his own room now, he switched when I demanded it.

The wet towel under me is starting to smell, more of a dampness. It's happened everynight so far. But it's better than the alternative though, I know that. And maybe I really don't appreciate that enough, it was Darry's idea.

My skin burns, literally. My mind hurts, mentally. My heart aches... Physically? Can that happen? I guess so.

I havent really left the house since it happened. You wouldn't understand.

Did you know Steve asked me himself once to go out with him and Soda? _He _actually asked me himself. That's how desperate they were. Well, 'are' I suppose.

I read books sometimes with the pratogonist having a tragic past they would overcome. I mean who cares what people think? And that's the attitude I had the first time I left the house. But people are cruel, people stared. Blatantly _stared. _I cried when I got home that night; well until I realized the salt from my tears burned the whole way down my face.

Ever had a cut and accidentally got salt water in it? Don't try it if you haven't. Really, don't.

My face is bleeding. The grunts coming from my mouth are embarrassing, believe me. Darry and Soda don't check on me anymore. Good or bad, I don't know. They'd had enough after about say, two months?

The skin is peeling even more, my hands are still yearning to touch.

I swing my legs to the side preparing to get out of bed. I can't lean back or the skin of my back will squish together causing it all to rub, that was one of the first things I learnt.

I didn't cut myself by the way, not my wrists or anything if you were wondering.

I take my time walking to the next room over. Even I can tell my steps are hesitat; soft. I'm not sure if this is a routine or not, how many time does it take to make something a routine? Maybe it's not about the amount of times, but whether you prepare for it or not. Know it's a neccistaity.

This is routine.

The bathroom, washroom, shit dispenser, place for washing hands, showering, all hygiene purposes?

... I'm stalling.

The bathroom door is already open. I prepared. But yet I stand at the doorway, just stand, hand on the door frame just under the light switch.

I switch it on and close my eyes slowly, although immediately. Routine.

I finally give in, letting my hands feather light skim across my face. Feel every bump, every flap of skin, every _burn. _Sigh, every burn.

My eyes are open, I honestly didn't even notice. I put my pointer finder right at the ridge to stop the tears from trailing down my face. Like I said, it fucking _stings. _

I have a wet towel prepared, and a wash cloth. Never too many, right?

I pick up the towel slowly, its green. It's refreshing on my hands oddly enough, the burns aren't as bad so it doesn't sting to bad, too bad.

There's pain killers in the cupboard, they don't help though do they? I reach for them anyway. I think it's mentally, the relief I feel of _thinking _something could actually help me.

I scream as salts wash over my face.

There's not really any salts though, it's the burns. They hurt enough naturally. Guess I just wished they needed a little extra something to start bleeding.

Soda's at the door before I realize, I see him in the mirror reflection though whipping around so fast.

"GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!" I notice his tears that come right away, not falling though. He's not that stupid. I bet his face doesn't sting when he cries. He has no reason to cry. Why would he have reason to cry? He looks around the bathroom, never looking at my face. He stares at the ground a long time, there spots of blood smeared into the floor mat.

He mumbles so quietly, so, so quiet. I'm not even sure if words came out his mouth, or whether he said it in his head and just moved his lips out of habit. Soda was always one to say what was on his mind, not hold it in.

I pick up the pain killers that had fallen to the floor, I hadnt noticed to be honest. Darry's snoring the other wall of the bathroom. He's more stressed now, odd hey?

I softly pat the towel to my face. It's a bit numb I suppose.

Is it selfish to feel as though I was the only one affected, the only one burned?


	2. I feel with you, as me

Don't own any recognisable characters.

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The room still feels foreign, like staying at a friend's house for the first time. But this isn't the first time; I'm only a wall away. A thin paper wall.

My body has started to make a dent in this mattress from being in the same position over and over. Not wanting to move. The first night I went to throw my arm over his shoulder.

…He wasn't there.

So I haven't moved since. My arms stay at my sides, my knees stay pressed together.

I can hear Ponyboy's voice ringing in my ears. He talks to me this way, I know he does. He doesn't use his mouth. He can't use his mouth. _I _can barely use my mouth. It's a silent communication between brothers. He's my brother _dammit. _

This room smells clean. There is no damp smell. No smell of blood either. Well, sometimes I suppose.

The sound is loud, a clanging of plastic on the hardness of floor.

I'm at the door before even I realize, and it's there. The painkillers I left on the bench have fallen. Maybe I did leave them too close to the edge.

Why do painkillers only work on some pain? Isn't that a little misleading?

There's a chip in the glass. It's right in front of my eye if I stand directly in front of the mirror. The tears on my face are cool. Like a healer in itself, the calming soft salts.

And it shines at me like a beacon. The blood stains on floor mat. When did they get there? Darry has been less careful lately. Two-bit had a bloody toe the other day, maybe he kicked the cabinet? Maybe the little shaving knicks on my face were bigger than I thought. Why didn't I feel them?

Why don't painkillers heal your heart?

It's too much and I'm running down the hall. To my room. I moved when Pony moved. I cleaned out my old one and told Darry I couldn't be in there any more, I had to make a sole decision for once.

The groove in the mattress fits my body; it's a comfort I suppose. It reminds me that my body is still the same you see. My shape hasn't changed,

I wasn't burned, I've been scarred. And sometimes I swear Ponyboy is me.

You can't tell Darry.

* * *

Sorry for taking so long.


End file.
